


To Honour and Obey

by EveryDarkCorner



Series: SladeRobin Week 2018 [5]
Category: DCU
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, Forced Marriage, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Rape, Whipping, also teeny tiny bit of dick/kori in here, listen slade is just an absolute bastard in this one, oral sex in public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryDarkCorner/pseuds/EveryDarkCorner
Summary: Gotham has fallen.  With his father King Bruce dead, and Slade Wilson sitting on the throne, Dick must protect his brothers -- even that means marrying the bastard holding them captive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SladeRobin Week 2018. The prompt for Day 5 was 'Forced/Arranged Marriage'.
> 
> Massive thanks go out to my gorgeous beta Mana. She put up with me writing dozens of drafts (some of them longer than this whole fic), scrapping them, redrafting them, tearing my hair out, redrafting them again, reaching for the drink ... and through it all she kept me inspired, laughing, and mostly importantly, writing! I'm so glad she did because I'm really happy with how this finally turned out.
> 
> Mana, you are a goddess. And your reward? You get to be blamed for all the REALLY dark stuff in this fic. It's all your fault. ;)

Dick got out of the handcuffs on the first night.

               Not that it helped.  Not really.  Hands bloodied and stinging, he curled on the cold dungeon floor, buried his face in his knees and tried not to scream.

               Bruce dead.  Brothers gone.  Friends gone.

               Gotham … _lost_.

               He tracked the days by the thin grey light filtering through the high window of his cell—barred, of course.  Still, he dug his fingers and toes into the ridges of the rough grey stone and climbed up to it.  Wrapping his fingers around each bar, he yanked, heaved, twisted.  Snarled.  Swore.  Jumping down, he tried the door, kicking at the hinges, slamming his shoulders into the heavy wood.  When that didn’t work, he dug with his fingernails at the mortar between the stones.  Every line.  Every corner.

               At night he shivered, breath clouding in front of him as he curled in the corner and tried to sleep.

               No one came.  Not to bring food or water.  Not to empty the stinking bucket in the corner he was eventually forced to use.  He never even heard footsteps outside the door.

               One day.  Two.  The sun rose on the third day, and Dick woke up parched, stomach cramping with hunger.

               _Maybe they’ve left me here to die._

               He shuddered.

               It was raining outside, droplets spraying through the barred window.  Dick didn’t try to climb up to it again.  If they weren’t going to feed him, he needed to conserve his energy.  Bide his time, until he got a chance to escape.  To find Jason, and Tim, and Damian, and his friends, and get them all out of here.

               He remembered the army approaching; riding into battle at Bruce’s side.  Screaming and blood and panic, swords glinting as they arced in the autumn sunlight.  The Kingdom of Metropolis had fallen.  Jump was in flames.

               And then Gotham … Gotham …

               He was half-asleep, head nodding, when footsteps echoed through the dungeon.  A creak rang out behind the door—the bar being lifted—and Dick shot to his feet, fists curled.

               They expected to find him cuffed and compliant.  So the first guard didn’t see Dick’s fist coming.

               Dick cracked him across the jaw, and the guard crumpled with a cry.  The second guard jolted back, and Dick took the opportunity and leaped in with a raw scream of rage, foot snapping up into the man’s chest.  The second guard staggered back, choking, and Dick lunged again—

               And something slammed into his ribs.

               At first it wasn’t pain so much as shock.  Like his whole body being lifted and shaken.  He doubled over, legs folding beneath him.  Then, as he hit the ground, the pain burst through his ribs.  He let out a belated cry, clinging to his side.  Putting a hand out, he tried to drag himself up—only for that hand to be snatched, and wrenched behind him.

               ‘No!’ he snarled, kicking, twisting to be free.  ‘NO!’

               A boot landed in his ribs, right over the pain already flaring up his side.  Dick yelped, and then the boot kicked him over, the hands around his wrist yanking as he flipped on his stomach.  He tucked his legs, but too slow—a weight landed on his back, pinning him down.  They caught his other arm.  Wrenched it behind him.  Baring his teeth, Dick snarled and fought, but felt cord tighten around his wrists.

               Arms looped through his, and hauled him to his feet.  The first guard—the one he’d punched—stood in front of him.  His teeth were stained with blood.

               He swung his fist back, and landed it in Dick’s stomach.

               Dick folded, retching as his stomach tightened.  He tried to gasp for air, but stuttered, lungs spasming.  _Can’t breathe._   He staggered as the guards dragged him forward, too weak to fight.  One floor pattern blurred into another as he moved, forcing tiny gulps of air.  When finally his chest expanded enough to let in real breath, he looked up and recognised the hallway outside the throne room.

               He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry.

               The great, dark doors to the throne room peeled back as they approached, and Dick forced his back to straighten.  Whoever had taken the crown, he wouldn’t let them see him broken.  He was still a Prince of Gotham.

               He stepped inside, walked rigidly down the sweeping red carpet, and scowled at the man in Bruce’s throne.  White hair.  Eyepatch.  Black and bronze banners displayed where Bruce’s grey and yellow used to hang.

               ‘Slade,’ Dick snarled.

               Resting his elbows on the armrests, Slade laced his fingers and leaned forward.  ‘I believe the correct term of address is “Your Majesty”.’  His mouth curved in a thin smirk.  ‘Well … kneel for your king.’

               ‘You’re not my king.’

               Slade’s single grey eye flicked to the guards holding Dick.  Then, before Dick could draw breath, a boot slammed into the back of his knee.  He dropped with a yelp.  The guards holding his arms let him go, slipping away like snakes.

               ‘You’ve been out of action for a few days,’ Slade said, voice lethally soft, ‘so you don’t fully understand how things are.  Gotham is now part of the Lutherian Empire, along with the Kingdom of Metropolis, Central Kingdom, Jump, and virtually the rest of the known world.  Emperor Luther has graciously appointed me King of Gotham.’

               _Emporer_ Luthor?  Dick scowled.  ‘Fuck you.’

               A long moment’s silence, and Dick waited for Slade to rise and attack.

               Instead, he murmured,  ‘I could.  If I wanted.’

               Dick went cold.  ‘Wh-what?’

               ‘Fuck you,’ Slade said calmly.  ‘Emperor Luther has made you and your comrades enemies of the empire.  You have no rights.  Your lives are worthless.  I have every authority to bend you over this throne, fuck you until I’ve had my fill, and then throw you back in the dungeon to starve.  In fact, I suspect the emperor would prefer that I did.’

               Dick’s heart raced, his throat tightening.  No.  No, this was a nightmare.  This wasn’t happening.

               ‘But I don’t want to do that.’  Slade straightened.  ‘I was hoping for a more … formal arrangement.’

               Skin crawling, Dick twisted his tied hands behind him.  ‘What are you talking about?’

               Slade’s gaze was cold, and unbreaking.  ‘A marriage arrangement.’

               Dick shot to his feet, backing away even as Slade’s guards lunged to grab him.  ‘No!  I’m not—I’m not going to—I won’t _marry_ you.’  He choked.  ‘You killed Bruce!’

               ‘Actually, your adopted father was killed on the battlefield by Talia al Ghul.’

               It felt like a punch to the chest.  Talia.  Damian’s mother.  _She_ killed Bruce?

               No—no, he couldn’t trust anything Slade said.  It was all lies.

               ‘Your status as King Bruce’s adopted son makes you valuable,’ Slade said.  ‘If you were seen to be working in union with me, it would help to ease any unrest in the kingdom.  Your people are fond of you, after all.’

               Dick read between the lines, and almost laughed.  Almost.  ‘You can’t control them,’ he breathed.  ‘People are rioting, aren’t they?  They don’t want a _usurper_ as their king.’

               ‘Oh, I can control them,’ Slade said.  ‘But I don’t think you would approve of my methods.’

               For a moment, the room was so quiet Dick could hear the thumping of his own heart.  ‘They’ve not—they’re innocent people.’

               ‘They’re a rebellious nuisance, and they will be dealt with, one way or another.’  Slade’s mouth twitched, a half-smile.  ‘You have an opportunity to decide how.’

               Dick gritted his teeth.  No.  Slade couldn’t just manipulate him like that.  _It’s all lies._   Even if he did what Slade wanted, there was no guarantee of his safety, or anyone’s.  Slade would do whatever he wanted.  Dick couldn’t change that.

               ‘I won’t marry you.’

               Slade sighed.  ‘I thought you’d be difficult, so I arranged something to convince you.’  He stood, looking over Dick’s shoulder, and called, ‘Bring him in.’

               The doors behind Dick opened again, and footsteps scuffled in.  Dick swivelled to track them—two guards in dark uniforms, like the ones who’d brought him here.  And between them, a boy in a red tunic—

               ‘Tim!’

               Tim looked up, shaking hair out of his eyes.  His face was pale and haggard, his lips dry and cracked, one eye blackened.  ‘Dick!’  He aimed a kick at one of the guards holding him.  ‘Dick, you’re alive!’

               Dick started towards him, but hadn’t made it three steps before his own guards grabbed him, dragging him away.  He swore, kicked and struggled, but each sharp movement sent pain rocking down his bruised side, like spikes driving into his ribs.

               They dragged Tim to the front of the room, and at a gesture from Slade, brought him down on his knees.

               Slade crouched, and caught Tim’s chin between finger and thumb.  ‘I’ve already had a message from Nanda Parbat about you, Drake.  Ra’s al Ghul will be reward me handsomely if I turn you over, alive and undamaged.’

               Tim’s eyes widened, and for a moment his struggling stilled.

               ‘Then again …’ Slade traced his thumb over Tim’s lower lip.  ‘Perhaps you’ll be more compliant than Grayson?  It would be a shame to waste you.’

Tim jerked his head back with a sound of disgust. 

               ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Dick snarled.

               Slade looked up.  ‘Why not?  Will you do something about it?’  He got to his feet.  ‘Your other brothers are alive as well.  Although they won’t be for much longer.  Jason might last, but Damian is rather small.  I doubt he’ll live long without food or water.  If they die, and I parade their bodies through the streets, that will send a message to the rebellion.’

               Dick’s chest tightened.  ‘You can’t.’

               ‘Would you rather I killed them quickly?’  Slade reached for the sword at his hip; he drew it with a soft whisper of metal on leather.  Tim jerked back as Slade rested the flat of the blade on his shoulder.  ‘That can be arranged.’

               ‘No!’  Dick yanked against his guards.  ‘Let him go!’

               Slade’s sword didn’t move.  ‘Agree to the marriage.’

               ‘Marriage?’ Tim choked.  His shoulders twitched as he wrenched against the guards still holding him, eyes rolling to look at Dick across the room.  ‘Dick, what the hell is he talking about?’

               Dick’s heart pounded in his throat.  He couldn’t speak.

               Twisting the hand in his sword, Slade traced the tip lower over Tim’s shoulder, the sharp edge pressing into the dip of Tim’s clavicle, even as Tim drew back as far as the guards holding him allowed. 

               ‘Dick,’ Tim snarled, ‘don’t give this bastard _anything_.’

               Then he drew a sharp breath as Slade pressed the tip of his blade deeper—deep enough for Tim’s eyes to widen and his shoulders to tense, brow furrowing in pain.  Blood beaded on his skin.

               ‘How callous are you, Dick?’ Slade murmured.  ‘How many brothers will you watch me kill?’  His eye flicked up.  He gave a tiny, one-shouldered shrug.  ‘Let’s find out.’  He drew his sword back, curling both hands around the handle.

               He stabbed down.

Dick lunged.  ‘Stop!’  His own guards tightened their grip, crushing his upper arms.  ‘I’ll do it, stop!  _Stop!_ ’

               Slade’s sword halted an inch from Tim’s throat.  His grey eye flicked up to meet Dick’s.

               ‘Don’t,’ Tim croaked.  But his face was sour-milk pale, his chest rising and falling sharply on each breath.

               Swallowing, Dick straightened.  ‘Release my brothers.  Let them go and I’ll do it.’

               Slade lowered his sword, stepping back.  ‘ _If_ you continue to obey me, I will release your brothers—one at a time—into comfortable quarters in Gotham Castle.  They will be fed and catered for, but they will not be allowed to leave.’

               ‘No good,’ Dick snapped.  ‘What about when they’re in the dungeons?  If they starve or freeze—’

               ‘They will be kept alive.’  There was a glint of triumph in Slade’s eye.  Dick’s stomach sank—Slade knew he’d won.  He was just arguing terms.  ‘Not comfortable, but alive.  Until you earn their release.’

               ‘When will that be?’ Dick clenched into fists at his back.  ‘You could keep them locked up for years.  And I want to be allowed to see them.  To make sure they’re safe.’

               Slade’s mouth twitched, and Dick wasn’t quite sure if he was fighting a grin, or irritation.  ‘I will release one person a week, provided you obey my orders; you do not attempt to flee or help the captives escape; and you go through with the marriage.  Once they are released from the dungeons, you will be allowed to visit them.’

               ‘Dick, no,’ Tim hissed.  ‘He’s lying, don’t trust him.’

Dick’s jaw tightened.  ‘Release them all, today.’

               ‘One per day.’  Slade flicked his sword near Tim, who hissed and flinched back.  ‘Starting with Drake, today.’  His voice grew hard.  ‘Or I kill him now, throw you back in the dungeons, and we start this against tomorrow with Jason, or Damian.’

               ‘Deal,’ Dick said quickly.

               Slade raised his chin, and this time he didn’t disguise his grin.  It was sharp, wolfish.  Predatory.  Sheathing his sword, he waved a hand at the guards holding Tim.  ‘Take Drake to his rooms.  Do not allow him to leave, but bring him whatever he requires.’

               As the guards hauled him up, Tim kicked out, teeth bared and snarling.  ‘Dick, don’t _do_ this!  Don’t give him what he wants!  Dick— _Dick—!_ ’

               Dick shuddered, eyes fixed on Slade as Tim was dragged out the throne room.  The doors closed behind him, and still Dick heard Tim shouting and fighting, the scuffles growing quieter as he moved away.

               When they finally died down to silence, Slade nodded at the guards holding Dick.  ‘Let him go.  Leave us.’

               The hands on Dick’s arms loosened, and he snatched himself away, rubbing at the aches where they’d gripped him.  Giving Slade short, sharp bows, the guards marched out.  Dick watched the door close behind them, and wondered hazily who they were.  Not Bruce’s people.  Slade didn’t _have_ people.  Luthor’s, maybe.  Paid through the nose to act loyal.

               ‘I hope you understand what you’ve agreed to.’  Slade’s voice was soft, but drew Dick’s attention away from the door as sharply as the crack of a whip.  ‘I expect total obedience.  Nothing less.’

               Dick stood up straight as Slade approached with slow, measured steps.  Fists clenched at his back, breathing hard, Dick gritted his teeth and fought not to flinch as Slade stepped behind him.  Slade set his hands on Dick’s shoulders, squeezed for a moment, fingertips just close enough to Dick’s throat to make Dick’s heart thump.  Then Slade ran his hands down Dick’s arms to his wrists, and with a few sharp tugs he loosened the ties holding Dick’s hands together.  Dick let his hands fall with a sigh of relief—before Slade grabbed his shoulders again, and pulled Dick around to face him.  Slade reached up, fingers tracing from the collar of Dick’s filthy shirt up the side of his neck.  He traced Dick’s jaw.

               Then Slade’s hand shot to the back of Dick’s head, and he swept in and kissed him.

               Dick’s mind blanked at the hard press of Slade’s mouth against his own; the sharp tug of Slade’s fist tightening in his hair; the heat of Slade’s body leaning up against his.  He felt a wet flicker against his lips.  _Tongue._   His stomach flipped, and in an instant terror and revulsion gripped him and he punched.

               Slade caught his fist, grip tighter than the guards, without breaking the kiss.  He crushed Dick’s hand inside his own and Dick groaned, teeth gritted against Slade’s mouth.

               Finally, Slade drew back.  Dick turned his head away, gasping like Slade had shoved his head underwater.

               ‘Fallen at the first hurdle, Dick.’  Slade’s grip somehow tightened further on Dick’s fist; Dick yelled out at the grind of joints curling deeper than they were supposed to go.  ‘Your brothers will have to wait an extra day for that mistake.’

               Dick sagged.  ‘No—that’s not—’

               ‘Not fair?’  Slade’s eye glinted.  ‘If this marriage goes ahead, I expect you to handle more than a simple _kiss_.  His fist on at back of Dick’s neck uncurled, sliding down Dick’s shoulders and back, and lower—

               Dick went rigid.  His face burned.

               Smirking, Slade squeezed his ass.  Then he dragged Dick’s body in closer, pressing their hips together.  Dick yelped, straining his shoulders back, arching as far from Slade as possible.  A hard ridge pressed against his leg, and no— _no, no, hell no—_

               ‘You will spend the rest of your days at my side—’ Slade leaned down, his breath tracing Dick’s cheek, ‘—and the rest of your nights warming my bed.’

               Closing his eyes, Dick fought down every instinct screaming at him to fight.  Shove Slade away.  Jason and Damian were still in the dungeon.  They still needed his help.  Stomach squirming, Dick drew a long breath, and let it out, and didn’t resist when Slade pressed a kiss to his neck.

               Then, finally— _finally_ —Slade let him go.

               Dick staggered back, head whirling.

               ‘You have freedom to wander the castle grounds,’ Slade said.  ‘But no further.  The servants will bring you whatever you want.’

               A nod.  If Dick opened his mouth, he was pretty sure he’d tell Slade to fuck himself.

               ‘Well.’  Slade raised his eyebrows.  ‘I’m sure you remember the way to your own rooms.’

               Dick wished he was proud enough to walk away calmly, back straight and head held high.

               He ran.


	2. Chapter 2

His bedroom felt alien after days sleeping on the dungeon floor.  Soft bed … velvet curtains … crackling fire …

               Dick stared, numb, disconnected.  It wasn’t his room anymore.  It didn’t belong to him.  It belonged to Slade.

               _He_ belonged to Slade.

               Lunging across the room, he made it to the chamber pot under the bed just before his stomach heaved.  He retched, throat tight, eyes watering.  With nothing in his stomach, he brought up little more than spittle.

               His skin tingled where Slade touched him.  His arms.  The back of his neck.  The small of his back.  His mouth—

               His mouth tasted of Slade, and bile.

               Dick didn’t recognise the servants who brought him water and toast.  In the bath, he scrubbed his skin raw, scouring away the sweat and filth from days in the dungeon … and the lingering, oily feeling of Slade’s touch on his skin.

               With clean clothes, food in his belly, and water to sip, by the time the sun set, Dick felt almost normal again.

               Until a black-uniformed guard hammered on the door.  ‘The king wants to see you.’

               Dick strangled a groan, thinking of Jason and Damian.  He stepped outside and followed the guard through the castle.  When he realised where he was being led, he stumbled.

               _Bruce’s room._

               The king’s chambers were enormous, exquisitely decorated, and achingly familiar.  Except for Slade, sitting where he didn’t belong, at Bruce’s table by the window, sipping Bruce’s wine.  Dick ground his teeth, blood boiling, wanting to stride over and slap the crystalline wineglass out of Slade’s hand.  Wanting to grab him by the lapels and throw him out the window; to see his body dashed and bloody on the ground far below.

               Slade didn’t seem to notice.  As the guard bowed and stepped out, he gestured to the seat opposite him at the table.  ‘Sit with me, Dick.’

               But Dick couldn’t move, beyond curling his hands into fists.  If he moved, he was pretty sure he’d swing a punch.

               Slade raised his eyebrows.  His eye flicked to the bed.  ‘Unless, of course, you’d rather lie down?’

               In the space of a second, Dick’s blood went from scalding to icy cold.  He shuddered.  Noticed Slade’s smirk.  Then forced himself to walk stiffly to the table and sit, fists clenched on his knees.

               ‘Good,’ Slade nodded over his wineglass.  ‘I knew you could be civilised, Dick.’

               ‘Unlike you,’ Dick spat.

               Slade’s stare hardened.  ‘Watch your tongue, Dick.  I could add another day to your brothers’ sentence.’

               Dick opened his mouth—then, as Slade’s eye widened infinitesimally, he pressed his lips together.  Mouth twitching in a smirk, Slade reached for the bottle of wine, set his own glass down, and poured a second, sliding it across the table towards Dick.  He took it, his mouth watering in spite of himself.  He’d spent only few days in the dungeon, but it felt like a million years since he’d had something as indulgent as _wine_.

               He sipped, and it hit his tongue like tar.  Grimacing, Dick put the glass down, forcing himself to swallow.  His stomach tightened, heaving as though he’d downed three bottles in one gulp.  He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, blood draining from his face.

               Slade laughed, low and rough.  ‘Can’t handle a drink, Dick?’

               Lowering his hand, Dick glared.  He slid the glass away.  ‘What do you want, Slade?’

               ‘You, mostly.’  Slade’s eye locked with Dick’s, half-lidded and hungry as he toyed absently with his drink.

               Dick’s spine went rigid, and he hated the fact that the way Slade spoke, hushed and wanting, sent a pulse through his lower body.  He shook it off.  ‘No.  Not until I know you’ll keep your word.  My brothers—’

               Slade waved a hand.  ‘Your brothers are fine.’  He set his glass down, leaned over his chair and laid a hand on Dick’s knee.  ‘I’ve already released Drake.  I think you ought to reciprocate.’  His hand slid up—up Dick’s thigh—

               ‘No!’  Dick lurched.

               ‘Yes.’  Slade’s grip tightened, and suddenly he was out of his seat, looming over Dick.

               Dick tried to stand, but Slade’s hands slammed onto his shoulders and pushed him down.  Slade’s knee shoved between Dick’s legs, coming to rest on the seat, pressed up between Dick’s thighs.

               ‘We’re not married yet,’ Dick snarled.

               Slade laughed.  ‘Were you under the impression I was going to _wait_ for you?’

               Dick bared his teeth, and coiled back.  Then, as Slade slipped his hands down from Dick’s shoulders over his chest, Dick shoved forward, burying his shoulder in Slade’s sternum.

               Growling, Slade stumbled back.  Dick shot to his feet, sprang up and over the back of the chair, and raced for the door.

               And choked when Slade caught the back of his collar, and yanked him backwards.

               Dick’s feet slipped out from under him.  He landed hard, pain flaring briefly in his hip.  Then his head smacked into the stone, and the room was alternately dark, and spinning.

               He tried to push himself up, but he was too heavy.  Something wrenched at his doublet.  Dick groaned, turning his head.  It pounded, like the floor slamming into it over and over.  A hand shoved into Dick’s breeches, and the wine seemed to come back up, clogging Dick’s throat, and he felt hazy and limp and hard.  Slade was breathing heavily, and his hand moving, too hot.

               ‘I won’t fuck you yet,’ he said.  ‘Just lie still, Dick.  Lie still for your king.’

Dick was vaguely aware of Slade shoving his own breeches down, gripping himself with his other hand.  Dick closed his eyes, and tried to be anywhere—on the battlefield with Bruce—in the dungeon, alone—anywhere but here—

               Coming felt painful, wrung out.  Like a bone creaking under pressure until it broke.

               It could’ve been years before Slade was finished.  Years of lying on a cold floor, head spinning, skin crawling.  Dick flinched at the hot splash on his neck.  But he waited until Slade stood, and tidied himself, and walked away, before he curled over and wiped it off his collar.

               Slade took a seat at the table once more.  Stretching his legs out, he poured himself more wine.  ‘Who do you want out first?’

               Dick shook his head, mouth closed.

               A sharp slap against the table, hard enough to make the glass ring out.  Dick curled tighter with a gasp.

               ‘Who do you want?’ Slade repeated.  ‘Jason or Damian?  Choose.’

               Dick groaned.  ‘No …’

               ‘Choose.’  Slade leaned in.  ‘Or they both stay in the dungeon.’

               ‘I don’t know.’  Dick shuddered.  ‘I can’t—’

               ‘Our deal relies on your _obedience._ ’  Slade sat back.  ‘Unless you’d rather I put you and Drake back in the dungeon, and let you all starve.’

               ‘No!’  Dick sat up.  He couldn’t—he didn’t just go through _that_ only to get tossed back in the dungeon.  Only for his brothers to starve.  ‘Don’t—don’t hurt them—’

               ‘Choose.’

               ‘Damian!’

               The name burst out almost without thought.  Damien was younger.  Smaller.  He wouldn’t last as long.  And Dick hated himself the moment he said it.  Hated condemning Jason to another day alone in the cold and damp.

               But Slade sat back, nodded contentedly.  ‘You’ve done better than I expected, Dick.’  His eye slipped down Dick’s body, and Dick restrained another shudder, forcing himself not to look down again.  ‘I’ll release Damian tomorrow.  Your reward.’  A moment’s pause, and Slade raised his eyebrows.  ‘Well?  Aren’t you going to thank me?’

 _Fuck you._   Dick swallowed it down.  ‘Thank you.’

               Slade nodded.

               And he didn’t comment when Dick got up and reached for the wine, and downed the glass in one gulp.

 

* * *

  

True to his word, Slade released Damian the following morning.  Damian came out yowling like a cat, restrained by guards at both arms, legs kicking wildly and screaming curses through the halls.

               Dick had never been more proud.

               ‘Where’s Father?’ Damian snapped, when he’d calmed enough to spit more than threats and curses, and moved on to demanding a bath, clothes, and a five-course meal which Dick was pretty sure Damian knew he’d only throw up after days without food, but which Damian seemed determined to have regardless out of spite.

               Sitting at Damian’s table, Dick hunched his shoulders.  ‘He’s gone, Damian.’

               ‘Dead?’  Damian straightened, eyes like thunder.  ‘Who?’

               Dick stared for a long moment, judging.  Then, finally, he sighed.  ‘Talia.’

               ‘ _Mother?_ ’  Damian snorted, shaking his head.  ‘Nonsense.’

               ‘It’s true,’ Dick murmured.

               Damian rolled his eyes.  ‘It’s just what Slade told you.’

               Dick didn’t argue any further.

 

* * *

  

He woke up in the night to the ringing of bells.

               Instinct drove him to his feet, into his clothes and out the door before anything close to rational thought kicked in.  Warning bells.  Something was wrong.  Gotham was under attack.

               Someone grabbed his shoulder and he lashed out automatically.  He took a punch to the gut, staggered back—and then recognised the black guard uniform.  And remembered.  _Slade._

               As the guard advanced, he raised his hands in surrender.  Shit, would Slade punish him for this?  Hold Jason another day?  Shit, _shit._   ‘I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I just want to know what’s going on.’

               ‘Go back in your room, little prince.’

               Dick scowled.  ‘Just _tell_ me—’

               ‘Go back in your room and sit quietly.’  The guard reached for the sword at his hip.  ‘Or I’ll _make_ you get back in there.’

               Fighting back was appealing; Dick desperately wanted payback for the punch still aching in his gut.  But if swinging a punch in surprised self-defence might get him in trouble, actively attacking the guard would definitely be grounds for punishment.  Gritting his teeth, Dick stepped back in his room, closing the door behind him.

               He didn’t bother to find a light; the fireplace was bright enough to find his way to the window, open in, and head back to bed.  No point trying to sleep, but Dick laid down anyway, and closed his eyes and listened to the shouting outside, clearer now with the window open.  Panic.  Tolling bells.  No screams of pain, but lots of low, angry shouting and heavy footsteps.  Dick breathed low and soft, trying to catch snatches of words; to work out what was going on.

               The door opened perhaps an hour later.  Dick leaped up, instantly on his toes.

               Slade shut the door behind him, then leaned on it, arms folded.  His face was like a storm about to break.

               ‘What’s going on?’ Dick murmured.

               ‘There’s been an issue with Jason’s release tomorrow.’

               Dick’s heart stopped.  ‘What _issue_?’

               ‘He escaped.’

               For a moment, Dick was frozen.  Then, gradually, his tense muscles relaxed.  _Escaped._   Jason was free.  Jason was safe.  Before he could let out a sigh of relief, Slade strode across the room, hand coming up to grab Dick’s jaw.  He pushed Dick’s head up, fingers achingly tight, forcing Dick to stare up into that single, cold eye.

               ‘If I find out you had _anything_ to do with this,’ Slade hissed, ‘you will wish I had given your brothers the quick death I offered.’

               Dick swallowed.  ‘I had no idea.  I swear.’

               Slade studied him for a long moment, lip curled in a sneer.  Then he swept down, pressed a crushing kiss to Dick’s mouth, and finally let him go.  As he strode out the door, his last words over his shoulder were, ‘Jason _will_ be found.’

               Dick took a long breath, hands trembling.  _I damn well hope not._

 

* * *

 

 As if made paranoid by Jason’s escape, Slade demanded Dick stay at his side at virtually all times from then on.  Dick stood behind the throne at Slade’s shoulder, biting his tongue through meetings and discussions and debates.  Bruce used to value Dick’s input.  Slade demanded his silence.

               Dick learned this after the first time he spoke up—when Slade waited until the room emptied out, then swept out of the throne, slammed Dick into the wall and closed his teeth so hard around Dick’s throat Dick screamed.  Slade didn’t loosen his jaw when he drew his head back, instead tearing at Dick’s skin like an animal.  Like he meant to bite Dick’s throat clean out.

               Dick slumped, cradling his throat and gasping.  When he drew his fingers back, they were smeared with blood.

               ‘Hold your tongue from now on.’  Slade wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.  ‘Or I hold it for you.’

               And Dick tried.  He _tried_.  For Tim, and Damian, to keep them alive.  To keep them safe.  Until he thought of a way to get them out, the way Jason got out.  But days passed, and days passed, and nothing presented itself.  Guards were stationed outside Tim and Damian’s rooms at all times.  Dick was lucky if Slade allowed him an hour a day to see either of them.

               One night, Dick fell asleep in the armchair in Tim’s room, curled up by the fire.  He woke up to find a blanket thrown over his shoulders, Tim sleeping soundly in the bed behind him.

               Slade called for him the following evening.  Two places were laid at the table in Bruce’s room; Slade ate while Dick picked at his food, straight-backed and trying not to make eye-contact.

               ‘You spent last night with Drake,’ Slade said.

               Not a question, but Dick nodded warily, keeping his gaze down.

               ‘That’s unacceptable.’  Slade lowered his fork, letting it click against the side of his plate.  ‘I gave you permission to visit your brothers, not to spend every waking moment with them.  If you struggle to sleep alone, _other_ arrangements can be made …’

               ‘No!’  Dick looked up sharply.  At Slade’s glare, he quickly added, ‘No, that’s not … that isn’t necessary.’

               He doesn’t say anything more.  Not when Slade finished his meal, and Dick set his knife and fork down because he couldn’t stomach another bite.  Not when Slade stood and walked around the table towards him.  Or when Slade dragged him to his feet.  Shoved him against the wall.

               He closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth, and didn’t say anything.

 

* * *

  

When Dick woke up to bells tolling again, his heart swelled.

               Tim?  Damian?

               _Both?_

               He padded to the door, not bothering to get dressed.  He found the guard standing outside his door, watching warily.  Dick spread his arms out, showing he was unarmed.

               ‘What’s going on?’  He tried not to sound too eager.  ‘Did someone escape again?’

               ‘No.’  The guard’s expression didn’t change.  ‘Go back to sleep.’

               Dick raised his eyebrows.  _With this racket?_   But he didn’t argue—just opened the window again and slipped back in bed, listening.  But it sounded different this time.  Not the sounds of men rushing to pursue an escapee, but—

               Swords clashing.  Men bellowing.  The hiss and thud and clatter of arrows.

               _Fighting._

               Attack.  Gotham was under attack.

               He waited, mouth dry, muscles tense.  Who?  Who was out there, fighting?

               The skirmish went on until the early hours of dawn.  Dick lay in bed, listening to every crash of metal on metal, and felt useless, and hated it.  Hated himself.  Most of all, hated Slade.

 

* * *

  

‘What happened last night?’ he asked, first moment he got alone with Slade, as they strode across the battlements, Slade inspecting the place as if deciding whether to tear it down.

               ‘Nothing of concern.’

               Dick tried to bite his tongue.  He _tried_.  ‘The bells were ringing.  I heard fighting.’

               ‘A rebellious attempt on Gotham Castle,’ Slade said.  ‘The likes of which I mean to bring to an end with our marriage arrangement.’  He eyed Dick, and suddenly Dick had the sensation that Slade was considering whether to tear _him_ down along with the castle.  ‘The ceremony is the day after tomorrow.’

               Dick stared.  So soon?  A royal wedding usually took months to prepare.  Had Slade even announced the wedding to the people of Gotham?  He couldn’t have sent out invitations to anyone—when King Clark got married in Metropolis, he invited half of Gotham to join him.  But Slade could hardly expect anyone to travel to Gotham in two days, much less with Luthor’s war still raging.

               Slade looked calm, staring out over the city like a cat staring at the mouse under its claws, but Dick got the impression he was … well … _panicking_.  If Slade even knew how it felt to panic.

               Reaching out, Slade curled his arm around Dick’s waist.  Dick let Slade pull him in; let Slade turn him around so his lower back pressed against the battlements, his shoulders hovering over nothing.

               One of Slade’s hands curled into Dick’s collar.  The other slid down his body—

               Dick gasped, pressing his hands on Slade’s shoulders.  ‘Slade—wait—no—’

               ‘Careful, Dick.’  Slade’s hand slipped down into Dick’s breeches, fingers curling around his soft cock.  ‘You don’t want to fall.’

               He loosed his grip on Dick’s collar for just a moment.  Just long enough for Dick to feel the swooping, sickening sensation of falling backwards, the wall against his back too low to hold him.  He glanced back, and the ground swerved and spun.  In an instant, Dick went from shoving Slade away to gripping his doublet in both hands, clinging to him for his life.

               Slade gripped Dick collar again, drawing him close.  He pressed his nose into Dick’s hair and drew a long breath.  Dick shuddered, but Slade’s hand was moving in slow, expert strokes, and Dick couldn’t help the blood flowing lower in his body.

               ‘I’m going to fuck you in every inch of this castle,’ Slade breathed.  ‘Bend you over these battlements and take you right here, where everyone in the city can see that you’re mine.’

               Dick closed his eyes, skin crawling.  He doubted anyone in the city, so far below, could see more than two indistinct figures.  But still, it felt violating, to be in the open like this.  To be used where people might see.

               Slade slipped his hand off Dick’s cock long enough to take Dick’s own hand, and draw it down between Slade’s legs.  A lump filled Dick’s throat at the touch of Slade’s erection, and then Slade was arching into Dick’s palm, letting out a low, breathy moan.  Dick lowered his head, trying to disguise the grimace.

               He forced his arm to move, forced his fingers to curl and loosen, the way Slade’s hand moved on him.  Mimicking.  Mechanical.  Trying not to think.

               He hovered, only half there, trapped between Slade and falling, feeling like he was falling anyway.  Then Slade came into his palm, hot and sticky.  And for a moment, Dick thought it was over.

               But then Slade growled.  ‘Come for me, Dick.  Come for your king.’

               And Dick had to wait, feeling bone-dry and wrung-out, desperately searching through his memories for whatever used to make him climax before he ever felt Slade’s hands on him.  Barbara Gordon in that dress last Christmas—the one cut so low when she reached out, he caught a glimpse of her nipple.  The girls from the city lifting their skirts over their knees to splash in the river on hot summer days, sweating and shameless.  It didn’t work.  Everything just came back to Slade.  Slade’s smell, Slade’s breathing, Slade’s hand on his cock.

               He wasn’t sure how he managed it, in the end.  Possibly his body just broke down and finished because it was that or stay there forever.

               _You are here forever,_ he thought miserably.  _In two days, you get to make it official._

 

* * *

  

That night, he told Tim, and then Damian, that the date was set.

               Tim shook his head.  ‘Dick … don’t do it.’

               ‘What else can I do?’ Dick said.

               Tim didn’t have an answer.

               Damian, however, sneered.  ‘You’re a coward, Dick.  You should’ve killed him days ago.’  He paced up and down the room.  A caged animal, prowling its enclosure, scratching at the bars.  His cheek was bruised from his last escape attempt, during the fiasco last night.

               ‘And then what?’  Dick spread his hands.  ‘Enjoy my two seconds of satisfaction before the guards cut me down?  They’d kill you and Tim, too,’ he added, with a pointed look.

               ‘Better to die fighting than live in a cage,’ Damian snapped.  ‘It’s all right for you.  You’re allowed _out_.’

               Dick thought of Slade’s breath on his face.  Slade’s hand in his breeches.  He shuddered.  But what could he say?  He couldn’t tell Damian—couldn’t tell him—

               ‘You’ve always wanted to be king.’  Damian’s eyes flicked to Dick’s throat.  To the bruise from Slade’s bite, gradually fading.  The bruise, Dick realised with distant horror, that by now didn’t look much like a violent bite at all.  ‘I suppose you’re enjoying every moment.’

               Dick’s wasn’t even sure what he grabbed; only that his hand fell on something, and he threw it with a bellow of rage.  Damian ducked, of course.  But then he also had to duck the punch Dick swung, and dodge the kick to his ankles.  And then the backhanded slap—the slap that connected, on the already-bruised side of Damian’s face.

               Damian fell with a shout.

               The bottom fell out of Dick’s stomach.  His rage cleared in a dizzying snap, and he stumbled back, mouth hanging open.  ‘Damian—shit—I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean it.  Shit, _shit_ —’

               He reached out to help, but Damian was already back on his feet.  The skin around his bruise was red and sore.  ‘Get out,’ he hissed.

               ‘Damian—’

‘ _Get.  Out._ ’

               Stomach tight, chest crushed, Dick staggered back.  Then he turned, and left.

 

* * *

  

When Slade’s latest meeting filtered out the door, Dick took a long, slow breath and released it in relief.  The sky was growing dark outside.  Almost time for bed.  Almost time to be alone and at rest.

               ‘Well, Dick,’ Slade murmured.  ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’

               Of course.  The wedding.  Tonight was his last night alone.

               Cold crept up his spine at the thought.  He tried to ignore it.

               He forced out a, ‘Yes.’

               Slade leaned sideways in his throne, staring up at Dick with a narrowed eye.  ‘Yes … ?’

               Dick closed his teeth together.  Then released them, with effort.  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

               When Bruce was king, he never bothered with formalities in private.  And it wasn’t as though Slade referred to Dick as ‘Your Highness’—which meant this was all just another way to lord his newfound power over Dick.

               Which might have been a comforting thought, if Dick had been able to _do_ anything about it.

               ‘You know, I don’t think you are ready,’ Slade said.  ‘You don’t seem to have fully grasped your position.  Come here.’  He waved his hand, direction Dick in front of him.  ‘Kneel.’

               Dick allowed himself half a second to close his eyes and cool his anger— _I have done_ everything _you’ve demanded_ —then walked out in front of the throne, and dropped to one knee, head bowed.

               ‘Both knees down,’ Slade said.

               Frowning, Dick lowered his other knee to the red carpet.  It offered very little in the way of protection from the hard stone floor.  His knees ached within seconds.

               ‘Closer.’

               Dick lifted his head, frowning.  But Slade only raised his eyebrows and beckoned—so Dick shifted closer on his knees.  Then closer.  Closer.  Slade parted his legs, and Dick realised what was about to happen and began to jerk up—

               Slade snatched his hair and dragged him forward.  Reaching into his breeches with his other hand, Slade drew out his cock, then forced Dick’s face down.  ‘Suck.’

               Dick’s core shook, both hands pressed against Slade’s legs, fighting with all his strength to keep his head up.  Fuck, how was Slade this strong?  How could he keep Dick down with just one arm?  And then, Dick realised with mounting horror that Slade’s cock was hardening—even without being touched, he was enjoying Dick’s struggling.

               ‘You swore to be _obedient_ ,’ Slade said.  ‘Do as you’re told, or suffer the consequences.’

               _Consequences._   That meant Tim, and Damian.

               Damian, who he’d already _hurt_.

               Stomach lurching, Dick slowly, gradually, eased the tension in his muscles.  Let Slade push his face down.

               He pressed his lips to the side of Slade’s cock, fighting the urge to grimace.  The skin was smooth, mercifully tasteless.  Dick didn’t fight when Slade gripped the base of his cock, drew Dick back by the hair, and pressed it inside his mouth.

               And then … then it was easy.  No, not easy.  Manageable.

               Keep his mouth open.  Let Slade buck his hips.  Slide against his tongue.  Graze the back of his throat.  Again.  Again.  _Again._   Dick’s face burned and his body ached, kneeling and hunched over, but it was bearable.  It was better than Slade forcing him to come.  At least this, he could privately hate.

               When someone banged on the door, Dick almost choked.

               Slade straightened, hand still in Dick’s hair.  ‘Come in.’

               Dick jerked back, but Slade’s fingers tightened in his hair.  With a whine of terror, Dick realised Slade intended to _keep_ him there.  He heard footsteps behind him—smacked Slade’s leg desperately, kicking, fighting to draw back.  In response, Slade snapped his hips forward, and this time Dick really did choke, as Slade’s cock slammed down into his throat.

               ‘Your Majesty—’

               Silence.  A cough.  The sound of several pairs of feet, shuffling uncomfortably.

               Slade didn’t seem to notice.  ‘Yes?’  He rolled his hips leisurely, fucking slowly into Dick’s still-open mouth.  And only a flash of cold terror for his brothers kept Dick rooted.  Kept him from drawing back his lips and _biting_.

               Another guard spoke; a lower voice.  ‘We found the boy.’

               Dick stiffened.  _Jason.  No._

               ‘You’ve brought him back alive?’

               ‘Yes, but …’  The guard let out a grunt of dissatisfaction.  ‘He killed our captain.’

               Slade grew still; Dick breathed heavily through his nose, heart thundering in a sickening combination of shame and terror.  Of course.  _Of course_ Jason killed a guard.  He felt half-mad, ready to scream, or run from the room sobbing.

               ‘And you want retribution?’ Slade said.

               ‘We want his damn head on a spike.’

               The shout came out of him without thought.  Mouth open around Slade’s cock, Dick heard it and his ears burned, because _fuck_ , it didn’t sound like a sound of horror so much as like a moan of enjoyment.

               ‘What’s the matter?’ Slade murmured, and when Dick glanced up he could just about see the smirk on Slade’s face.  ‘You don’t think Jason should be punished?’

               Dick barely managed a whimper; Slade laughed.

               Then he looked back up at his guards.  ‘Unfortunately, I did promise Prince Dick here that his brothers would not be harmed as long as he was obedient.  But what kind of a king would I be if I allowed my prisoners to commit murder unpunished?’

               Dick tightened his grip on Slade’s legs.  _A king who keeps his promises._

               ‘A compromise,’ Slade murmured.  ‘A few lashes might be sufficient?’

               Grumbles of dissent from the guards.  Dick wanted to leap up and tear their throats out, but Slade’s grip remained stinging-tight in his hair.

               ‘Well, Dick.’  Slade’s voice grew lethally low.  ‘You were in the middle of something.  Let’s just see how you do.  Then I’ll make up my mind.’

               Cold flooded through Dick’s body.  Slade couldn’t be serious.  He would—he would _execute_ Jason if Dick didn’t—if he couldn’t—

               ‘Dick,’ Slade said, very softly, ‘you’re disappointing me already.’

               It felt like a hand closing around his heart.  Dick’s mind raced; his thoughts blurred; his stomach tightened and buzzed and twisted.

               And then … the world went out of focus.  Everything except—

               He opened his mouth, as wide as it would go.  Slipped his tongue out over his bottom lip.  Lowered his head, down, down, down.  When he felt Slade’s cock brush the back of his throat, he closed his lips tight, sucked, drew back.

               Slade shifted, adjusting the angle of his hips.  Then he sat back.  No longer fucking into Dick’s mouth, no longer gripping his hair painfully tight, but sitting back, watching.

               Dick bobbed his head, again, again, desperately finding moments to breathe.  He swept his tongue over the head of Slade’s cock, met the taste of salt, and fought not to retch.  The muscles in Slade’s leg tensed under Dick’s hands—so Dick did it again, dropping his head, pulling back, swiping his tongue over the tip.

               When he pushed himself lower, Slade’s cock pushing against the back of his throat, Slade twitched.  A few more attempts.  Deep, gulping breaths.  Dick realised dully that tears were streaming down his cheeks.  His heart was beating like a rabbit’s, fast and frantic.  He burned all over.

_He’ll kill Jason.  He’ll kill him._

               Dick leaned forward.  Parted his lips.  Slipped his tongue out.

               Let Slade press against the back of his throat.  Then press further.  In.  _Down._

               It felt like having his hands tied.  Restricting.  Suffocating.  Maddening.  But Dick wriggled his tongue and bobbed his head slowly, letting Slade’s cock thrust in and out of his throat.

               Slade’s breath hitched.

               Dick kept going until his lungs screamed for air, then drew back, gasping through his nose.  One sparse lick over the head of Slade’s cock and he dropped his head again.  It slipped in easier the second time.  Dick moved faster, nose brushing into the white hair at the base of Slade’s cock.  He rubbed his hands up and down Slade’s legs.  Then—shoving back another wave of shame—he slid one hand up to squeeze and tug at Slade’s balls.

               The noise Slade made was brief, choked, and sent a surge of triumph through him.

               Dick shifted his angle, moved faster, sucked harder, let out groans when he almost ran out of breath.  _Better, do better._   He read Slade’s twitches and sighs and growls like semaphore, desperately trying to find the exact right movements, to repeat the right patterns.

               And then, without warning, Slade’s hand tightened in the back of Dick’s hair once again.  He snapped his hips up once, twice, deep into Dick’s throat.  Dick felt hot spray against the back of his tongue, sickly bitter.  He recoiled on instinct, thought for half a second he’d regret it, but then Slade jerked his head sharply back.  He squeezed his eyes closed against the warm ropes of come, splashing over his face in stomach-turning pulses.

               A moment’s stillness.

               Slade slumped back.  Frantically, Dick swiped his hands over his face, wiping his eyes and lips clean.  Still, when he blinked, his eyes burned, and the taste lingered on his lips.

               Straightening, Slade swept a hand backwards through his white hair.  ‘I think that will do.’


	3. Chapter 3

Dick sat at Slade’s side, fists clenched on his knees.  The arena used in summer for jousting tournaments was thick with mud after the autumn rain.  The flagpole, usually strung with colourful garlands, and with Bruce’s banner streaming at its peak, was stripped bare.

               Except for Jason.  Tied to the base.

               He twisted, rolling his bare shoulders and snarling up at the stands.  Dick didn’t recognise most of the people around him.  Tim and Damian remained confined to their rooms.  Only he would be forced to watch.

               Behind Jason, the guard slowly uncoiled the whip.

               Jason’s eyes roved the stands, flicking from face-to-face.  Finally, his gaze flicked to Bruce’s seat.  Found Slade.  ‘Bastard!’ he bellowed.  ‘You’re no king, Slade!  You’re—’

               The guard raised his arm, then brought the whip down.

               Dick had never heard a whip before.  It sounded like pain felt.  Sharp, sudden, blistering.

               He couldn’t believe Jason didn’t scream.

               A second strike.  Jason grunted, and Dick flinched in his seat, hissing in sympathy.  And then Jason’s eyes slid away from Slade’s, and found Dick’s.

               ‘Dick?’  He didn’t say it so much as mouth it, eyes widening in horror.  The whip cracked again, and this time Jason arched his back, teeth bared in a snarl.  His gaze found Dick’s again immediately.  _Dick, help._

               Through gritted teeth, Dick growled, ‘How many?’

               ‘Fifty lashes,’ Slade said.

               Dick hissed.  ‘ _Fifty?_ ’

               ‘How many lashes are worth a man’s life?’  Slade arched an eyebrow.

               _None,_ Dick thought.  You couldn’t boil a man’s worth down to a number of strikes from a whip.  Bruce wouldn’t have tried.  Bruce wouldn’t have locked Jason in the cold and the damp and the dark, and starved him, and made him think the only way out was to kill a man.

               Jason endured the first twenty lashes better than Dick did.  His jaw remained tight, his eyes hard.  Whenever he looked up, he ignored Slade and looked straight at Dick.  At first, Dick cringed and squirmed and avoided his gaze.

               _Get up.  Get up and help him!_

               ‘If you move,’ Slade murmured, ‘I will change my mind.’

               Near lash number thirty, Jason cried out for the first time, the bellow of pain tearing out of his throat like an animal let loose from chains.  When he looked up for Dick again, Dick didn’t look away.

               There was no loathing on Jason’s face.

               Just determination.

               Grim, monstrous determination.

               Dick held his gaze.  Let Jason draw strength from him.  _I’m here.  I can’t stop them.  I can’t help you.  But I’m here._

               Lash number forty-six.

               _I will not let this happen again._

               Forty-seven.  Jason heaved, screamed, leaned heavy against the pole.

_Not to you.  Not to Tim, or Damian._

               Forty-eight.

               Jason jerked, choking like he was about to be sick.

               _Slade will pay for this._

               Forty-nine.

               Blood trickled over Jason’s ribs.  He locked eyes with Dick one last time, lip curled in a snarl.

               Fifty.

               Dick was on his feet and racing across the mud before Jason finished screaming.  The guard backed away, coiling the whip, and Dick gripped Jason’s shoulders.  ‘I’ve got you.  I’m here.’

               Jason turned his head, and spat into the mud.  His breath was heavy.  He stank.  ‘Dick, listen to me.’

               ‘I’m here.’  Dick squeezed his shoulders.

               ‘Bruce is alive.’

               Dick drew back, staring.  Dazed.  ‘W-what?’

               ‘He’s alive and he’s coming for us.  Tonight.  Hold out.  Hold out until tonight.’

               Dick didn’t notice the guard until a hand shoved him back.  Tugging a knife from his belt, the guard sliced through the ropes tying Jason to the flagpole.  Jason waited a moment, leaning hard on the flagpole.  Then he struck—an upward blow, colliding with the guard’s jaw, knocking him backwards into the dirt.  There was an uproar from the stands, and guards flooded across the arena like crows swooping over a corpse.

               No need.  Jason sagged, slumping against Dick with a groan of pain.

               Something pressed into Dick’s palm.

               ‘Get that bastard off Bruce’s throne,’ Jason spat.

               The guards hauled him away.

               And Dick slipped the knife up his sleeve.

 

* * *

 

 The ceremony was a farce.  Dick didn’t know a single person present.  It was over in a flash; one moment Dick knelt beside Slade, his head bowed; the next he allowed the priest to wind cord around his wrist and Slade’s, tying them together.

               He choked out an, ‘I do,’ without feeling.  Ignored the look of triumph on Slade’s face.

               Guards dragged Tim and Damian out for the feast.  They glared daggers at Slade the whole evening, but the guards stationed at their shoulders kept them in their seats … that, and the placid look Dick shot them.

               _Stay put._

               Jason stayed in his room.  Recovering.

               _Bruce is alive._

               Dick ate what little he could stomach, and touched none of the wine, although Slade kept reaching to top up his glass, and looking irritated to find it still full.

               Leaning close, Slade breathed in Dick’s ear, ‘Is the drink not to your liking?’

               Dick forced himself, with enormous effort, not to flinch away.  ‘I prefer to be sober.’

               Soft laughter—Slade traced Dick’s jaw with soft fingers, but didn’t press any further.  Dick had to bite his tongue the rest of the night.  Force himself to be the perfect, obedient little _pet_.

               It was easy enough to follow Slade back to Bruce’s room, as the night grew darker and the party guests grew rowdy enough not to need the newlyweds’ presence as an excuse to enjoy themselves.

               Dick’s heart hammered in his throat, and as Slade pressed him into Bruce’s bed, Dick half-wished he’d drunk the wine after all.  Kneeling over him, straddling Dick’s waist, Slade traced his hands down the sides of Dick’s body.

               Dick reached up, crossing his arms over his chest.  Then, as Slade narrowed his eye, he let out a breath.  Lifted his arms further, over his head.  Buried them under the pillow.

               Slipped the knife from his sleeve.  Let the lump rest beneath his head, the hard ridge a comfort as Slade murmured in appreciation.  He flicked the clasps down the front of Dick’s doublet.  Dick gritted his teeth.  Let Slade work.

               He was fast, but Slade was faster.  He was strong, but Slade was stronger.  He needed to wait.  Hit the right moment.  Strike too soon and …

               Slade tugged Dick’s doublet off, then shoved his shirt up under his arms, spreading his calloused palms over Dick’s bare skin.  Closing his eyes, Dick turned his head.  Buried his face in the pillow.

               Lifted his hips when Slade pulled his breeches down.

               ‘You see?’ Slade murmured.  ‘Isn’t it easier when you’re obedient?’

               ‘Fuck you,’ Dick whispered.

               Slade laughed, and then pressed his mouth to Dick’s lips.  He swept his tongue into Dick’s mouth, large and hot and wriggling.  Dick squirmed, a weak noise of complaint escaping without thought.  Slade groaned, and ground his hips down against Dick’s.

               He straightened to rip off his own doublet.  Then his shirt.  When he leaned in to kiss again, Slade was rougher.  Dick lips ached against the pressure.   And now Slade’s hands moved roughly, shoving, grabbing, scratching.

               Dick closed his eyes when Slade shoved his own breeches down.  _Don’t look._   The knife was just under the pillow.  _Not yet.  Don’t look._

               He waited.  Waited until Slade shoved his legs apart.  Until Slade crawled over him.  Until he felt the pressure of something against him, and then the sharp sting of something _inside_ him, and he had to bite his tongue to fight a scream.  It felt like being torn apart.

               Slade snapped his hips, and Dick didn’t bother to keep from screaming.  He writhed, kicked, and Slade pressed a forearm against his chest to pin him down.  Dick gasped.  _Can’t breathe._   Slade thrust forward, again and again.  It hurt too much.  _Can’t escape._   Slade groaned.  He was a red-hot haze of pain.

               He reached up.

               Slade’s jaw tightened.

               Dick curled his fingers around the handle of the knife.

               Slade’s eye squeezed closed.

               Dick forced a breath.

               Slade came—

               And Dick plunged the knife into his good eye.

               It went in easier than he expected.  Almost no resistance.  Just the soft, wet feeling of carving through meat.  Slade fell back with a bellow like an enraged animal; tumbled off the edge of the bed, landing with a dull thud.

               Silence.

               Dick stood.  Stared down at Slade, lying curled around his bloodied eye.  Not moving.

               Gripping the knife, he gathered his clothes, turned and slipped out the door.

 

* * *

  

The guards outside Tim’s door sniggered at Dick, haggard and dishevelled, staggering barefoot to his door.

               ‘The king already had his fun with you, huh?’ one of them said.

               Right before Dick slipped the knife into his chest.

               The other went down almost as easily; a sharp kick to his chest, and then a swipe of the knife across his throat.

               Dick slammed his fist on Tim’s door, heart pounding like a drum.  Bruce was coming.  Bruce was coming, and this was _his_ castle.

               Tim opened the door.  Stared down at the bodies.  Stared up at Dick.  ‘Holy shit,’ he breathed.  ‘What’ve you done?’

               ‘Bruce is coming.’  Dick didn’t need to say anymore.

               Outside, the bells began ringing.

 

* * *

  

They ran together to Damian’s room.  The two guards had time to draw their swords, but Dick dodged the first swing and lunged in close.  Close enough to bury his knife in the guard’s throat.  Beside him, Tim dashed the other guard’s head against the wall.

               Damian opened the door a moment late, face like a thundercloud.  He took in the toppled guards; Tim’s pale face; Dick’s bloody hands.  Then he let out a breath.  ‘ _Finally._ ’

 

* * *

 

 

They despatched the guards outside Jason’s room just as quickly.  Jason staggered out, shoulders hunched, bandages peeking out from under his collar.  But he bent to take up one of the guard’s swords, gritted his teeth and marched out with them.

               ‘Is anyone else in the dungeons?’ Tim said.

               ‘I don’t know.’  Dick glanced between Tim and Damian.  ‘Go and check.’

               ‘You want us down in the dungeons?’ Damian spat.  ‘If Father is coming, we should be fighting at his side—’

               He stopped, flinching as he caught Dick’s gaze.  Dick wasn’t sure what he looked like.  Only that he felt empty.  Empty, and cold.  And ready to kill.

               ‘If Bruce is coming,’ Dick said levelly, ‘he needs more than four men.’

               Damian narrowed his eyes, but as Tim raced away, he turned and followed.

               A crash shook the foundations of the castle.  Dick staggered, setting his hand on the wall.

               Jason grinned.  ‘Sounds like Bruce is knocking.  Wanna go let him in?’

 

* * *

              

It was a long way through the castle to the portcullis.  The warning bells had roused Slade’s men, and they tore through the halls like ants pouring from a kicked nest.  Dick twisted the knife in his hand.  He wasn’t suicidal.  Fighting two, or even three men, was feasible.  With Jason, he could bring that number up nearer to five.  But two men against an army …

               They turned, and turned again.  Feet pounding on the floor, Dick counted the seconds between thunderous crashes outside.  As they dashed across the battlements, he finally saw the cause of the cacophony.

               A battering ram.

               Torches flared around it, sending shadows of the war machine flying over the heads of the men around it, making it seem three times its actual size.  Dick watched it rock back, then swing forwards, pummelling into the portcullis.  It sounded like walls falling down.  The ground trembled underfoot.

               But the gate held.

               Beside him, Jason put on a burst of speed, tearing several steps ahead.  It was a moment before Dick saw the reason why.

               In the tower beside the gate, the lever was unmanned.

               They could raise the portcullis.

               They could let Bruce in.

               He took a sharp breath, forcing his aching legs to move faster.  And then, between the crashes of the battering ram, over the shouts of Slade’s guards and Bruce’s invading force, he heard a hoarse shout that sent ice shooting down his spine.

               He turned, knees buckling like they’d been kicked out from under him.

               Slade staggered across the battlements.  Blood streamed from his eye, coating his face in glistening, dark crimson.  He shouted again, not words, but an animal sound of pain and fury and desperation.  Groping at the battlement wall, he took another step, and another, lips curling back to reveal red-stained teeth.

               ‘Dick!’ Jason shouted.

               ‘Go!’  Dick squared his shoulders against Slade, who lifted his head at the sound of Dick’s voice.  ‘Open the portcullis!’

               Barely a moment’s pause, and he heard Jason’s footsteps pounding away behind him.  Slade lurched a step closer.  Dick’s hand shook around the knife.

               ‘Ungrateful, disobedient, whoring little _shit_!’

               Blood and spittle sprayed from Slade’s lips.  He reached out blindly, and Dick side-stepped and slashed with the knife.  But Slade must have heard, or guessed, what Dick was doing, because he slipped back, then swung a punch at Dick’s head.  Dick tried to duck, but moved too slow, and the strike sent him sprawling.  The knife clattered out of his hand.

               Fumbling, Dick shoved himself up.  But Slade dropped on top of him, clumsy but _heavy_ , fingers groping at Dick’s chest—his shoulders—his neck—

               Snarling, Dick threw his fists up, pummelling into anything he could reach.  Ribs, shoulders, arms, stomach.  Slade groaned, and spat, spraying Dick’s cheek.  But his grip only tightened, and Dick wheezed, kicking, writhing, unable to shift Slade’s weight.  His hand flapped out uselessly beside him.  His fingers grazed the knife.  It slipped a little further away.

               He stretched, lungs burning, wriggled his fingers, and closed his palm around the handle.  Slade turned his head, hearing the scrape of metal on stone, but Dick lunged in a second time, this time driving the knife into Slade’s throat.

               Then his shoulder—his arm—his ribs—

               Slade yelled and struck, his fist slamming into Dick’s shoulder, but Dick stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

               No deals.  No compromises.

               Just pain.

               Pain, and rage.

               Slade rolled sideways off him, breath rattling, and Dick hauled himself up and slashed down at Slade again and again, barely seeing what he was hitting, just knowing—knowing he had to stop him—had to _kill_ him—

               Hands landed on his shoulder, and Dick turned with a scream of rage, sweeping to his feet, knife upraised.

               And stared into a dark face with wide, shadowed eyes.

               He lowered his arm.  His throat tightened.

               ‘Bruce?’

               Bruce didn’t answer—probably couldn’t.  He gasped, brow drawn, face haggard, like he’d run a thousand miles to reach Dick on the battlement.

               Behind Dick, the portcullis was open.  Men streamed in, and Dick couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard their shouting; the clash of swords; Slade’s men screaming as they were cut down.  Up in tower beside the portcullis, Jason slumped against the lever.  He waved weakly.

               Dick turned back to Bruce, head spinning.

               Bruce swallowed.  Then he put his arms out.

               Dick fell into them, knife slipping out his fingers and clattering on the stone.  And Dick wasn’t sure when he started sobbing, but suddenly he was acutely aware of the heaving in his chest, the tears blurring his vision.

               ‘I’ve got you,’ Bruce murmured; exactly as Dick had said to Jason that morning.  ‘I’ve got you.’  His grip was tight—not painful but grounding.  ‘I’ve got you.’

 

* * *

  

The coronation took place a few weeks later.

               Dick sat through it with the same numb disconnectedness as he’d endured his wedding.  It seemed almost pointless to crown Bruce a second time.  But Bruce wanted everything perfectly official; as Luthor’s empire was driven out of kingdom after kingdom, this cemented that Slade was not king here.  Not anymore.

               Bruce sat in his throne, crown nestled in his hair, and it should have felt right.  Like a return to order.  But instead …

               _‘Let’s just see how you do.  Then I’ll make up my mind.’_

               Dick shuddered, and kept his eyes down, and told himself that Bruce’s concerned stare was just his imagination.

               At the feast, Dick heard someone approaching and looked up sharply, muscles tensing.  But it was Damian, carrying a bottle of wine.  He held it aloft, raising one eyebrow.  Frowning, Dick lifted his glass, accepting the offering.

               ‘Since when do you pour drinks?’

               Damian’s jaw tightened, but then relaxed.  When Dick’s cup was full, he set the bottle down and leaned in close.  ‘Father has made me aware of the lengths you went to in order protect our lives.’  He kept his voice low, and glanced furtively around the room, as if afraid of being overheard.  Then he swallowed, jaw clenching once again.  ‘I … I appreciate it.  I regret what I said in anger.’

               Dick reminded himself not to gape.  That was the closest he’d ever heard Damian come to an apology.  ‘That’s … that’s all right.’  He raised his glass.  ‘Thanks for the wine.’

               Nodding, Damian straightened and rolled his shoulders back.  He strode back to his seat with the expression of a man who’d walked through fire and come out unscathed.

               Some time later, he noticed Bruce’s chair sitting empty.  Twisting in his own seat, Dick found Bruce standing in a dark corner by the window, staring out at the stars.  As if feeling Dick’s gaze, Bruce looked round, and beckoned him over.

               Dick stood, and realised he’d drunk the wine a little too quickly when the floor tilted underneath him.  He held the back of his chair until his head stopped whirling, then straightened and headed to Bruce.

               ‘Not enjoying your own party?’  He nodded at the tables and chairs, filled with people smiling and laughing.

               ‘I’m enjoying it.’  Bruce gave him a soft smile, which faded the longer he stared into Dick’s face.  ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’ 

               Dick swallowed and looked away, but Bruce reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

               ‘You know you did a good job, don’t you?’  Bruce glanced over at the tables; at Jason play-tussling with Damian, while Tim cheered them on, banging his fork on the table.  ‘You protected them when I couldn’t.’

               Dick took a long breath, staring at his brothers with an ache in his chest.  He wanted to say thank you, or something to that effect, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth.

               Finally, he choked, ‘Everything reminds me of him.’  He was aware of Bruce’s eyes on him, warm and concerned, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet Bruce’s gaze.  ‘Gotham’s been my home all my life, and Slade was only here a few weeks, but he … he _ruined_ it.  I keep thinking he’s going to walk round the corner.  I keep _remembering_ —’

               Remembering Slade, pushing him into the sheets of Bruce’s bed, pushing _inside_ him—

               Dick bit his tongue.

               Bruce’s hand slid off his shoulder.  ‘There’s … an opportunity.  If you want it.’

               Slowly, Dick forced himself to look up into Bruce’s face.

               ‘Gotham Kingdom wasn’t under Slade’s rule too long,’ Bruce said.  ‘We suffered, but … Luthor’s empire has laid other kingdoms to waste.  Kingdoms that need our help.  Otherwise, we risk Luthor running a second campaign, regaining strength.  We need ambassadors.’

               Dick stared.  A strange feeling rose in his chest, and it took him a moment to realise it was warmth.  Something to _do_.  A task—a mission.  A chance to get away from Gotham Castle, just for a while, and scrub the bad memories away.  ‘Where?’

               ‘The Kingdom of Jump.’  Bruce pressed his lips together.  ‘It’s a long way, I know, but if it’s what you want—’

               ‘I’ll do it.’  Dick smiled, and touched Bruce’s arm.  ‘Thank you.’

               Bruce returned the smile with a nod.  ‘In that case, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

               He drew Dick back to the table, to a far corner where strangers sat chattering merrily.  Among them sat a woman with long, fiery hair in a gown of rich, deep purple.

               ‘Lady Kori,’ Bruce said, and the woman looked round, still smiling from whatever joke she’d been sharing a moment previously.  ‘I’d like to introduce you to my son, Dick.  He would like to be Gotham’s ambassador to Jump.’

               Lady Kori swept to her feet, beaming.  With a jolt, Dick realised he had to stare _up_ to meet her gaze.  She was taller than him by several inches, and build strong.  A shieldmaiden, he was willing to bet.

               ‘Delighted to meet you.’  She curtseyed gracefully, then offered her hand.

               Strong _and_ graceful.  Dick took her hand, feeling a little weak at the knees.  ‘And you.’

               ‘Sit down, sit down!’  Kori drew him into the seat beside her.  ‘I’ll tell you all about Jump.  We could really use your help.’

               Dick didn’t notice when Bruce slipped away back to his seat.  And he didn’t think about Slade for the rest of the night.


End file.
